


The Divorce

by LaFilleAvecLeStylo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adulthood, F/M, Humor, Not Epilogue Compliant, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26601751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaFilleAvecLeStylo/pseuds/LaFilleAvecLeStylo
Summary: "Hypothesis: Draco Malfoy could make Hermione Granger enjoy his touch, rather than resent it."Method: So gently she could hardly feel it, he grazed his fingers across her cheek before settling his hand at the side of her neck. Leaning forward his breath ghosted across her skin and he placed a single kiss to the juncture of her neck and jaw."Reaction: He felt her pulse quicken ever so slightly, and as he pressed his lips against her neck, she let out the smallest sigh."Finding: All it took to stop Hermione Granger scowling at Draco Malfoy was a touch."Inspired by Marriage Law fics, but not one.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 16
Kudos: 89





	1. Prologue: The End, Part 1

Hermione Granger, for she was a Granger once again, pulled her quill from the parchment and pushed the divorce papers across the expansive and dark desk. Her ex-husband, unusually quiet, watched as their solicitor gathered them up. The tall witch with wiry hair slipped the documents into her briefcase, pushed her thick-framed glasses up her nose, and cleared her throat. 

“Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger, you are now officially divorced. I will submit these papers when I get back to the office. If you have any more need for my services, please don’t hesitate to ask.” The two divorcés nodded at her and smiled, him grimly and her warmly, before the solicitor turned on her heel and left the dark-paneled office. 

“Well, Granger,” Draco said, running his hand through his unruly blond hair. “I guess that’s that.”

“I guess that’s that,” Hermione agreed. “I’ll be out of here by noon.” 

Draco swallowed. “You can take your time. There’s really no rush at all.” 

“No, no. I’ll get out of your hair. I have some errands to get to this afternoon, anyway, so I should get settled into the apartment sooner rather than later.” Her dark skin shone in the light that filtered through the large, dusty window of Lucius Malfoy’s old office. Her smile seemed out of place in the dark misery of the room. 

“Can I help you, then?” Surely to God she could bear to spend one more hour with him, couldn’t she? 

She waved her hand in a friendly but dismissive gesture. “Oh, no need. I’ve magicked everything into a single box, it’ll be no trouble to move.” 

No, of course she wouldn’t want his help. She wouldn’t want anything from him ever again, would she? 

“Right, of course,” Draco said, the tremor in his voice belying his indifference. “Figured I’d ask, just in case.” He sat down stiffly in the chair behind the desk, as if occupying his father’s place could instil him with the strength he needed to survive the rest of this conversation. “So what’re your plans for the afternoon, then?”

Hermione leaned against the vast bookshelf covering the wall opposite the desk. Though she would not want to admit it out loud, she was worried for Draco. His hair was a mess, the dark circles beneath his eyes were wide and deep, and she knew he hadn’t been eating full meals all week. She tried to answer him as kindly as she could. “Just coffee with a mate, and picking up some groceries.” 

“Which mate?” He always saw right through her. It was part of what had made their arrangement over the past year so tense. 

“I’m meeting Darpan for tea.” 

Draco swallowed. “Well, I can see why you don’t want to be late. I guess you’d like to just go finish up now, then. Don’t want to keep you.” 

“Look, Draco, I know we had an agreement about your reputation, and you must know that Darpan and I never—” She shook her head vigorously, her coily hair bouncing around her face. Draco longed to wrap one of those coils around his finger. She might as well have slapped him.

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione. I know.” He smiled weakly, the grin not quite reaching his grey eyes. “Look, just because we’re divorced now doesn’t mean I’ll stop supporting the Foundation, either. You more than delivered on your end of the deal.” 

Hermione smiled broadly and Draco felt a sharp pain in his stomach. “That’s really good of you, Draco. I appreciate that a lot.” Silence spread between them, cold and uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose I should be going.” 

“Right, yes,” Draco said. “I should see to this, anyway.” He grabbed a pen and a random sheaf of parchment, which he waved in front of him to give the impression that he would do something other than weep when she left. 

“Right,” Hermione said again. She straightened herself and hesitated. Taking the next step felt monumental, like it would shatter something very delicate that she couldn’t quite name. She opened her mouth to say something, but thought otherwise. Hermione Granger was no coward, but she could not bring herself to say it. She turned and walked out of the room as Draco turned his face to the parchment he was holding, unable to muster the courage to watch her as she left. The words she did not say would haunt him for quite some time.


	2. The Beginning, Part 1

There were days that Hermione Granger wanted to just leave it all behind. She could so clearly picture how it would go. She would snap her wand, burn or sell all of her books about magic, move back closer to her family, and get a muggle job in a muggle town. The magical world was so backward and twisted in so many ways, and the struggle toward social progress felt like taking one step forward and sprinting ten metres back. As a child she had loved being magical and revelled in this thing that made her special and different from the world she had grown up knowing. As a teenager she had resented the deep-rooted bigotry that ran like a spring beneath the shiny veneer of magic, but still felt deep in her heart that magic could be a force for good in this world. Now, as a thirty-year old, she understood that rotten trees could only bear rotten fruit. There was no separating magic from the hateful society which had simultaneously created and been created by magic, and she longed to leave it behind.

It was a foolish dream. She had never taken any A-Levels or attended university. She didn’t even have any muggle medical records any more. Per the muggle world, Hermione Granger barely even existed, never mind having the qualifications required for any sort of employment. She was a witch, for better or for worse, until the day she died.

Hermione sighed heavily and rested her head on her desk. Life had been particularly miserable of late, and today she had taken another hit. The nonprofit for which she worked, the Agnes Waterhouse Foundation for Muggle-Born Children, had just received yet another major cut to its funding. It was close to closing its doors, which would mean cutting off services to the muggle-born children and their families the Foundation served. Another generation of muggle-born children would be pushed into the world of magic with no tools or services to aid them in that transition, and another generation of parents to these children would see their children off into a world which they could not understand. The Foundation made the world of magic friendlier to muggle-borns and their families. Hermione should have known it would be the first thing on the chopping block when the Ministry of Magic announced plans to reevaluate their financial priorities.

“Doing alright there, Granger?” Hermione’s colleague Darpan had appeared at her door, cracking one of his trademark jovial smiles. The tall, slim wizard, with his slight Gujarati accent and his gentle sense of humour, was her closest confidant at work.

“Did Miranda tell you about the funding situation?” Hermione’s head remained on her desk as she spoke.

Darpan nodded and entered the room, settling into a chair next to Hermione’s desk. “She did. Looks like we might not make it.”

Hermione groaned as she lifted her head. “When I first found out I was magical, it was the loneliest experience in the world. My parents didn’t know what was going on, I didn’t know what was going on, and they understood magic so little that I could never talk to them about what was happening in my life. They still barely understand me.” She leaned back and stared at the ceiling as if in defeat. “Why don’t people understand how important it is to support these children and their families?”

Darpan sighed. “I know. Growing up it was the same for me, and it was even harder for my parents as immigrants to try to fit into British society with a wizard for a son. But hey, this doesn’t have to be the end. You can do this work without the Agnes Waterhouse Foundation.”

Hermione frowned. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Her voice was small and exhausted.

“How about we start with lunch?”

Hermione laughed and stood. “You are full of excellent ideas, Darpan.”

Sitting across from one another at their favourite lunchtime haunt, a local muggle deli where nobody would recognize her, Hermione and Darpan were tucking into smoked meat sandwiches and coleslaw.

“I can’t believe you lost that promotion to Maryanne,” Darpan was saying, patting at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “She doesn’t have half the skills you do.”

“It’s those awful marriage laws,” Hermione said with a sigh, poking at her coleslaw. “It doesn’t matter how qualified I am. I’m not married to a pureblood wizard and thus not contributing to the replenishment of the wizarding race. As if it’s my fault that the death toll was so high.”

Darpan shook his head. “Obviously the war was awful, and it’s so sad how many people died, but in what universe is this legislation the correct reaction to that?”

“It’s eugenics, is what it is,” Hermione said, stabbing a pickle with her fork. “They’re so worried about magical people having non-magical children that they will literally legislate to encourage marriages, the children of which are more likely to be magical.” She brandished her fork, still wielding the pickle, in the air. “They’re trying to control the outcomes of births through law.”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” Darpan agreed, pushing his plate away. “I just can’t believe it actually impacted you like that. I mean, you’re Hermione Granger. Surely not being married to a pureblood can’t impact your career outcomes. You’re you.”

“I stopped being such a darling of the wizarding world when I broke off the engagement. Though I notice that Ron seems to have no trouble getting promotions.” He had just become the youngest-ever Assistant Commissioner of Sports and Recreation for the Ministry of Magic.

Darpan shrugged. “There’s no winning.”

Hermione laughed and raised her mug of tea. “Here’s to not winning, I suppose. Looks like I’ll be a fundraising assistant forever.” With a smile, Darpan clicked his glass of water against her tea.

* * *

Back at the office, Hermione tried to busy herself with her work, reaching out to and catching up with donors to the Foundation. Now more than ever she was desperate to increase their donations. She would rent herself out as a clown for children’s parties if it would save the place, though she highly doubted she was worth 1.5 million galleons as a clown-for-hire. She was idly wondering how she would look with clown makeup on when there was a sharp knock on her door frame.

“Well, well, well,” Hermione said, sitting up straight and wishing she had worn slightly more professional clothes that day. “If it isn’t the donor that got away. What can I do for you, Malfoy?” She smoothed her skirt under her desk and tugged on the hem of her shirt to hide some of the wrinkles.

Draco Malfoy swept into her office with the ease of someone who was raised to believe that it was his right to be absolutely anywhere he wanted to be. “Granger,” he said, taking a seat in the same chair Darpan had occupied earlier. He glanced around the office and sniffed slightly, as if he expected the messy office to smell as unclean as it looked.

Hermione stared at him expectantly, her initial shock cooling into annoyance. “What is it, Malfoy?”

Draco looked startled, as if he had already forgotten she was there. He cleared his throat. “I heard you lost a promotion.” Hermione noted with frustration that he looked as composed as ever, his white-blond hair styled carefully and his clothes perfectly tailored. His appearance stood in sharp contrast to hers today, and she regretted having to reschedule her salon appointment the week before.

“You’re here because I lost a promotion?”

“Must have been frustrating,” he said, standing and analyzing her bookshelves. “Losing out to someone without half your qualifications, I mean.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m still not sure why you’re here, Malfoy.”

“Draco, please.” Draco spun on his heel to face her. “You can call me Draco. It’s a cute little foundation you have here. Great mission.”

“Oh really? Because last time I reached out to you for a donation you told me that you had no interest in helping muggleborn brats play wizard.” Hermione crossed her arms across her chest, no longer worried about her clothing and only interested in getting Draco Malfoy out of her office.

“Bygones, surely.”

“Whatever, Draco. What are you doing here?”

Draco returned to his previous seat. “Quite right, down to brass tacks. I hear that the Ministry is removing the Agnes Waterhouse Foundation from the budget this year. Even with Ministry funding you were on thin ice, though, weren’t you?”

Hermione sighed. “So you’re here to gloat, or something? Draco, I really don’t have the time.”

“Not at all, Hermione.” She flinched when he said her name, and he watched her curiously for a second or two before continuing. “I’m considering making a sizable donation to the Foundation. I just wanted to stop by and learn more about the place first.”

Hermione scowled. “My colleague Darpan is right down the hall. He can answer any questions you have.”

“I don’t want to talk to Darpan. I want to talk to you. Just treat me like any fundraising prospect.”

Hermione stared at him for a second, trying to force down the anger that was rising up her throat like bile. “Fine,” she said tersely. “The Agnes Waterhouse Foundation for Muggle-Born Children helps muggle-born children and their parents navigate the transition between the magical world and the muggle world. We provide services to introduce children to magical social and cultural norms and history which will help them to make connections with their classmates. We also connect them with counsellors and mentors who have made that same transition, among other things. We provide their parents with classes about the magical world so they can have conversations with their children and understand what they’re doing, preventing the breakdown in communication which often happens between muggle-born magical people and their parents. We are a registered non-profit with the Ministry of—”

“Is that what happened to you, Hermione?” Draco asked. “Did the relationship with your parents break down?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “That’s irrelevant. A great example of the work we do is Agnes Liu.” Hermione produced a photo of a teenage girl with long black hair at a magical Mid Autumn Festival. On either side of her, completely at ease with the magic around them, were her parents. Her father had a muggle camera in his hand and her mother wore a jumper with “Hogwarts Mum!” emblazoned across the chest.

Draco took the picture from Hermione and stared at it intently.

“Agnes’ parents were made aware of our services when she was first accepted to Hogwarts,” Hermione continued. “We worked with them to acclimatize Agnes to the magical world, and helped introduce her parents as well. From classes about conversions from pound sterling to galleon to helping them shop for Agnes’ school supplies, we were there every step of the way for Agnes’ first few years. Now Agnes is in year six and near the top of her class, and her mother is the first muggle to be President of the Hogwarts Parent-Teacher Association. They’ve really thrived, and they’ve told us that our help at the beginning of Agnes’ entry into the world of magic made all the difference. This is the kind of support we can offer these students and families, but we need your help.”

Draco’s smile looked unkind and unpracticed. “That’s quite a pitch, Hermione. How long did it take you to memorize it?”

Hermione snorted. “It didn’t. I’m speaking from the heart, here.”

“Sounded heartless,” Draco shrugged. “I’m just giving you constructive feedback.” Hermione glared at him. “So why did you lose that promotion?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does, actually. I want to know what kind of organization would give such an opportunity to someone who didn’t earn it. Doesn’t seem like the kind of place I’d want to trust with my money.”

Hermione gritted her teeth. “The Foundation wasn’t allowed to give me the job because of those stupid marriage laws.”

“Ah yes, those,” Draco said, leaning back in his chair. “Which one?”

“The one that says that women who aren’t married to wizards whose genetics would guarantee a magical child when combined with their own cannot advance past a certain pay grade.”

“Remember when you lot thought the government after the war would be all pro-muggles and muggleborns?”

It was all Hermione could do not to slap him.

Apparently unaware that Hermione was shooting him curses with her eyes, Draco glanced at the photo of Agnes Liu and deposited it on Hermione’s desk before standing. “So what kind of wizard are you meant to marry to ensure we magical people don’t die out?”

“A pureblood.”

“What happened to Weasley?”

“Also irrelevant.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Draco said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “He invested all your savings in his brother’s joke shop and then it went bust. That must have been a real media circus for you.”

Hermione wondered if it was possible to spontaneously combust from hatred. Undeterred by her furious silence, Draco continued. “So you need to marry a pureblood.”

“I don’t need to,” Hermione snapped. “I happen to quite like my job.”

“Hermione Granger? Liking being in a junior position at work at the age of thirty? Doesn’t sound like you.”

“Because you know me so well?”

“Well enough.” They stared at each other, the hatred burning up the space between them. “How much money does your little Foundation need to survive?”

“One and a half million pounds. Probably loose change to someone like you.”

Draco smirked at her. “Careful, now. You sound a bit bitter. Could put a donor off.” He pulled a watch from his pocket and checked it before snapping it shut and shoving it back into the folds of his cloak. “Goodbye, Hermione.” With that and a click of the door, he was gone.


	3. The Beginning, Part 2

It was just one fucking thing after another, it really was. He hadn’t been home two minutes when the fireplace crackled and in walked his business associate Patrick. Teaming up with the halfblood had been a strategic choice to deflect rumours of ongoing Death Eater activity in the Malfoy household, but the man had ultimately had a good head on him for numbers. His unexpected appearances were never auspicious, however. 

“Patrick,” Draco said, sighing and pouring himself a drink. “To what do I owe this?” 

“Your mother has published another book.” 

Draco choked on his drink. “Fucking—another one? What’s this one about?”

“Same as ever. Pureblood superiority. The necessity of society’s return to old-fashioned values. Et cetera.” Patrick snorted and helped himself to the liquor cabinet. “Shares have plummeted, just like they did after the last one.” 

Draco ran his hands through his hair, mussing it beyond recognition, and groaned. “I love my mum, I really do, but I wish to God she would shut up for one fucking second.” 

“You’re telling me,” Patrick said, taking a deep drink. “No love lost there, I assure you.” Draco’s announcement a few years prior that he was teaming up with a halfblood man nearly gave Narcissa a coronary. 

“How’d you hear about this one? The book, I mean?” Draco asked, sinking down into a chair. Patrick gracelessly threw a newspaper at him in response. Falling open on his lap, Draco took in the headline. 

_ MALFOYS STILL AGAINST MUGGLEBORN INTEGRATION _

“Oh, well, that’s bloody perfect, isn’t it?” Draco said, throwing the newspaper to the ground. “God forbid any reporter stop to think that her views might not be representative.” 

“Whether or not you agree with her isn’t the problem,” Patrick said before taking another gulp of his drink. “The investors think you probably do.” 

“I don’t agree with her,” Draco snapped. 

“I’m not here to judge.” 

“Christ, Patrick. How long have we known one another?” 

Patrick shrugged. “The point is, our shares have reached record lows. This book might be the tipping point. We managed to win back stakeholder trust after the last few incidents with Narcissa, but this might be the one that breaks us. There’s no way to rein her in, and without that, no way to convince shareholders that you aren’t still, you know.” 

“A Death Eater.” 

“A raging bigot of genocidal proportions.” 

Draco sighed. “So what do we do, Patrick?”

“Something to save face.”

“I stopped by some charity that helps muggleborn children today. They’re about to go under. I could donate enough to save them and then some. Surely that would count.”

Patrick considered the idea. “It could work, but it might just look like you’re trying to buy your conscience. We might have to go bigger.”

“How? Turn the manor into an orphanage?” 

“No, there’s something sinister about a former fascist, a single man, bringing a bunch of kids to live with him.” 

“Good God, Patrick,” Draco spat. “What’s wrong with you that you take it that way?”

“I’m just telling you what everyone will think. Donating money to kids is fine, surrounding yourself with them is not. It’s all about the optics.” Patrick rubbed his temple. “We need something that demonstrates that you’re clearly pro-muggleborn, and that can’t be interpreted any other way.” 

“Could I kill myself?”

“Well, it might make the Board happy not to have to deal with you anymore, but I don’t see how leaving your fortune to your insane mother will endear you to the muggle-loving public.” 

“Oh, she is my beneficiary, isn’t she? Fuck, I need an heir or two.” 

“An heir and a spare,” Patrick quipped. 

“Humour isn’t your strong suit, Patrick.” Draco scowled. 

“You just hate that I’m funnier than you.”

“I hate that you bring me problems and not solutions.”

Patrick walked back toward the fire and leaned against the mantle. “Give me a numbers problem and I’ll solve it three ways before you could even process it. Issues relating to your family’s incredibly well-known history of genocide? Not an area of specialty. Anyway, I’m off.”

“Hot date?”

“I only date hot ones.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ximena. She’s Spanish.” Patrick said this final word with a waggle of his eyebrows. 

“Wasn’t the last one Spanish?”

“No, she was Greek.” 

Draco slumped further back in his chair. “Can you leave any girls for the rest of us?”

Patrick laughed and thumped the mantle. “This is your payment for trying to kill me that time. Remember?”

“Of course I remember when we met,” Draco said, rising and refilling his drink. “My biggest regret in life is that I didn’t succeed.” 

Patrick snorted. “See you tomorrow, boss. Unless I can’t walk straight and have to stay home.” With that he stepped into the fireplace, and in a blink, disappeared in a burst of green flames. 

* * *

Pursuing a career in politics had been Draco’s father’s idea, but it had been a good one. It was a cushy career with generous pay, lots of prestige, and a great deal of power. Draco’s goal was of course to become the Minister for Magic, but his political star had begun to falter of late. When his career was young and he wasn’t particularly powerful, people paid him very little mind. As he rose through the ranks, however, people began to take notice that a former Death Eater was making a play for power. When his mother began publishing her treatises on the superiority of purebloods, his career had really begun to suffer. 

It had been at this time, when Draco was about twenty-seven, that he met Patrick and decided to step back from politics. His career had stalled at the rank of Junior Minister of the Environment, a position about which he barely cared, and it had become clear to him that in order to advance much farther in the wizarding world he would have to leave the Ministry. Together they established a new brand of cauldrons, with Draco providing the seed money for the company and Patrick working out the accounts. Three years later, Bulla Cauldrons was the United Kingdom’s biggest supplier of school cauldrons, and the already wealthy Malfoy family became that much richer. With his wealth accruing rapidly and the business ticking along nicely, however, Draco had felt it was time to turn himself back to his earlier ambitions. To the Ministry he turned his thoughts and intentions. 

He ran into a few roadblocks. 

After his father’s death his mother’s delusions of racial supremacy grew greater, and he found it increasingly difficult to keep her opinions under wraps. Once she realized self-publication was an option she became nigh unstoppable. There was no chance he would be able to advance his career further with her activities getting in the way unless he made a truly bold stand, and now even his success with Bulla Cauldrons was being threatened by her. If he ever made a bid for Minister he would want his shareholders to help him fund it. He couldn't have them pulling away from him now. Draco Malfoy considered himself something of a man of action, but he was running out of actions to compensate for his mother’s increasing notoriety. 

He could donate money to charity, and he had. It bought him the public’s favour, but not enough to truly rid himself of his mother’s stench. Donating to something like Granger’s charity could work, as it was so explicitly pro-muggleborn and pro-muggle. It would be a start, but he knew he had to do something truly bold. 

His mind returned to Granger. Her hair was as messy as ever, but she had grown into it well. She remained sharp as a tack, a trait which he had always begrudgingly respected. Most importantly, she was a famous muggle-born, beloved by society save that hiccup with her ex-fiancé. She, too, was in a difficult position. It occurred to him that he was in a position to help Granger, just as she was in a position to help him. And so he went to his father’s old office, in which Draco had taken up his work. He sat behind the large wooden desk, selected his favourite quill, and dipped it in an ink well. And then he began to write. 


	4. The Beginning, Part 3

The restaurant was grotesque in its ostentatiousness. Delicate gold leaf clung to every surface that wasn’t covered in silk, and the rich smell of butter clung to every fold in the fabric which draped down the walls. The floor, where it wasn’t marble, was a plush burgundy carpet with a pile so deep Hermione feared for her ankles as she stepped onto it. Burnished candelabras hung over every small, intimate table, each one prepared only for two. This was not a restaurant for a family dinner or a business meeting. All its trapping screamed sensuousness, and Hermione felt her skin crawl as the low murmur of snatched conversations washed over her. The accents were all too posh, too plummy, for her to be comfortable. Hermione could not help her impression that this was a restaurant designed for the wooing of mistresses, and for the briefest moment imagined herself as one of those mistresses, being beheld as if she were cherished, as if she were a secret worth losing everything for.

Draco Malfoy was already seated at the table to which the impossibly petite hostess was guiding Hermione, and between the hostess’ delicate features and Draco’s perfect suit, Hermione was suddenly reminded that she was not at all like the women whom she had passed, sitting at their tables with heads bent toward their dining companions. No, she felt quite different, and quite out of place. Draco rose, and Hermione froze as he pulled out a seat for her. He muttered something unintelligible to the hostess, who dipped her head and smiled, before Hermione came to her senses and sat. 

“I thought you said this would be a work lunch at a small restaurant,” Hermione said, suddenly keenly aware of the volume of her voice. 

“Exactly,” Draco said, his voice all business. “Now, are you precious at all about having a drink with lunch? I was thinking of ordering a bottle of wine.”

“Draco, the Foundation can’t afford this lunch, so I really don’t think—”

Draco waved his hand to silence her. “The Foundation doesn’t have to afford it. I’m treating. Wine?”

Hermione chewed her bottom lip and stared hard at Draco before clearing her throat and sitting up straighter. “If you’re paying for this, then I’m having the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Draco laughed easily, and Hermione seethed that he was comfortable in this horrible place. “Hermione, you will find that I am very interested in giving you whatever it is you could possibly want.” He flicked his index finger in the air and a waiter appeared silently behind him. “We will share a bottle of the 2005 Pavie Macquin Saint Emilion Bordeaux, and then I will have the saffron-glazed cedar cured jamón iberico. The lady will have—” he raised his eyes over the menu to meet Hermione’s “—the olive Wagyu sirloin?”

Hermione glanced at the menu and tried not to swallow too hard at the £200 price tag. “Yes, thank you.” She had said she wanted the most expensive thing on the menu, after all. 

The waiter nodded, bowed slightly, and then disappeared. “What the hell kind of place is this, Malfoy?” Hermione hissed. 

“I thought I told you to call me Draco,” he said. “It’s my favourite restaurant.” 

“I can’t afford to breathe the air in here, let alone eat.” 

“I told you that this is on me, Hermione.” 

Hermione scowled. “I have no idea what you’re playing at, bringing me to a place like this and saying it’s for a work meeting, but if you think I’m impressed that you’re about to waste £1000 on a lunch then you have got quite the wrong end of the stick. I should’ve expected that someone as loathsome and vile as you would think that this garish restaurant, with its—” Here, Hermione was cut off by the waiter swooping in with their wine. She continued to glare at Draco in prickly silence as he tested and approved it, and as the waiter poured her a glass. 

“Hermione, I understand that you aren’t accustomed to great wealth, and that this perfectly beautiful restaurant has your hackles up. If I had predicted your reaction I would have made reservations elsewhere.” Draco said this matter-of-factly, as if her tirade had had no impact on him and her barbs had left no sting. Hermione deflated slightly. “That being said, I did bring you here for a business proposal.”

Hermione sighed heavily. “What can I do for you, Draco?”

Draco took a healthy swallow of his wine and Hermione followed suit, horrified to find that it was absolutely delicious. “Well, I think we can help each other. You see, I am in desperate need of an image boost, and your Foundation is in desperate need of saving. I am prepared to donate £5000 per month to your Foundation indefinitely, as well as an initial donation of £1.5 million.” 

Hermione nearly spat out her wine, but recovered as the waiter returned with their food. “Draco, are you serious? That’s amazing. That’s incredible. That would save us.” 

He nodded distractedly. “Yes, so I gathered when I visited the other day. However, I am not proposing a one-ended deal.”

Hermione quickly swallowed a bite of steak so delicious it should have been illegal. “Yes, of course. I mean, we can name anything after you that you’d like. A program, maybe? Or our building?”

Draco’s laugh was on the edge of cruel. “No, I don’t want anything from your little charity, though I will publicize this donation to an extent and might need some quotes from the Executive Director. What I want is from you, Hermione.” 

Hermione stilled, her fork halfway to her mouth. “From me?”

Draco nodded and analyzed her face carefully. He could barely taste the designer ham he was eating. “We’ll get to that,” he finally said. “Tell me, what is it you said that held you back from getting that promotion? The one you deserved?”

“Those Marriage Laws,” she said slowly. 

“And where do you hope to go with your career? Where do you see yourself in ten years, if you didn’t have that legal obstacle?” 

“Perhaps at the head of a non-profit myself.”

“Is that feasible for you at the moment?”

Hermione gulped her wine. Suddenly, the artistic shadows of the restaurant felt threatening. “Not with the legislation as it currently stands.”

“I, too, am currently being held back from my career ambitions,” Draco confided in her, pushing away his half-eaten dish. “You see, people erroneously assume that I hold anti-Muggleborn sentiments.”

“Erroneously?”

“Erroneously, Hermione. I’ll admit I’m not a bleeding heart liberal, but I’m certainly no fascist.” 

“But your mother’s books—”

An enraged snarl stole across Draco’s face before he could school his mouth back into a pleasant, if cold, smile. “My mother has nothing to do with me, Granger. I’m not a child anymore.” Hermione swallowed and Draco continued. “You have illustrated my point. People make certain assumptions about my beliefs and values, and it is restricting my career potential. I need to do something to restore my image.”

“So you want to donate to the Foundation to show that you care about muggleborn children?”

“That is definitely part of the strategy.” 

“What’s the other part?”

“I told you I have a proposal for you, Hermione.”

“A business proposal.”

“It’s both, really.” 

Hermione choked on her wine. “A proposal-proposal?”

“You need to marry a pureblood to achieve your career potential, and I need to make a bold statement about my embrace of the muggle and muggleborn communities. I propose to you that we get married in the interest of our careers.”

Hermione remained silent for a long time, and Draco let her think, periodically glancing up at her and searching her face for her answer. Finally, she found words; inadequate though they were. “What am I supposed to do with this, Draco?”

“Either agree to it or don’t. Though I should mention that my donation to your Foundation is dependent on your agreeing to this plan and its duration dependent on the duration of our arrangement.” 

Hermione scoffed. “Yes, what an ally you are.” They fell back into silence while Hermione finished her glass of wine. “So what would this look like? How would this go?”

“Well, if you agree to this, then at the end of this meal I will guide you out of the restaurant with my hand on your hip. That should be enough to get tongues wagging. When we announce our engagement in a month, and our marriage the month after, people will be surprised but not caught totally unaware. Then you can move into the manor, in your own wing. Beyond making the odd public appearance we will live very separate lives. And my first donation to the Foundation will be made tomorrow.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Then at the end of this meal we will shake hands, leave this restaurant quite clearly on professional terms, and I doubt we will ever see one another again.”

Hermione nodded. “I’m going to finish my steak before I decide.” 

Draco smiled, quite genuinely Hermione thought. “For the record, I can afford to keep you in Wagyu beef.” They then remained in silence as Hermione savoured the remainder of her steak, ate her vegetables, and finished another glass of delicious, preposterously expensive wine. She glanced around at the horrible, garishly extravagant restaurant and wondered if she could bring herself to spend more time in places like this, with Draco Malfoy of all people. She thought about the Foundation, and the work it did and how close it was to closing its doors. She thought about sitting behind a desk one day in an office labelled “Executive Director,” and whether or not she would ever be able to make it to that point on her own. She found herself coming to a conclusion. 

“I would have conditions,” she said.

“Naturally,” Draco responded easily. “So would I. What’s coming to mind?”

“A divorce clause. I would want a way out. And I would have to choose some of our public activities. And I’m keeping my last name.” 

Draco coughed. “No, you aren’t. A divorce clause makes sense and it’s only reasonable that you pick some of our activities. But you have to take my name. That’s non-negotiable.” 

“You’re basically asking me to sell myself to you for an indeterminate period of time,” she snapped. “I’m keeping my name.”

“You’re taking my name and I’ll increase my monthly donation to the Foundation by £2000. And I’ll keep my extramarital affairs under wraps.” 

Hermione scoffed. “You’re already planning affairs?”

“This is hardly a marriage of love, Hermione. As long as we keep things quiet and don’t risk each other’s reputations, I hardly think it unwise to plan for a little fun.” 

Hermione considered this, and begrudgingly found he had a point. “Fine. I’ll take your name for the extra £2000 per month.” 

“So you’re agreeing to this, Hermione? You’ll marry me?”

Hermione shuddered but nodded. “I’ll marry you.” 

“Well, then,” Draco said, his mouth twisting into a sardonic smile. “Hermione Granger, if you haven’t made me the happiest man on earth.”


	5. The Beginning, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, because I just dashed this out and haven't edited it at all. This is likely littered with typos.

“Hermione, you won’t believe what happened.” Work was pandemonium and it wasn’t even 9:01. 

“Why, what’s happened?”

“Guess who’s in Miranda’s office?”

“It’s too early for riddles, Darpan.” Hermione dropped her overstuffed bag on her desk and pushed a swathe of hair out of her eyes. “What has happened and who is in Miranda’s office?”

Darpan was nearly breathless with excitement. His curled hair dipped above his deep brown eyes and his glasses had slid halfway down his nose. Hermione found this fascinating to the point of distraction, and realized she hadn’t at all been listening to him. 

“Sorry, what?” She shook her head. “Could you repeat that?”

“Draco Malfoy. The billionaire Death Eater guy.”

“What about him?” More of Darpan’s hair had fallen across his forehead, and as he pushed it back into place Hermione found herself wondering about how his forearms might feel when grasped. 

“He’s here. In Miranda’s office. Hermione, are you alright?”

Hermione blinked hard and silently chastised herself. She had had a crush on Darpan for well over a year, but it only recently had begun impacting her concentration at work. “Yes, quite alright. Draco Malfoy, you said? I wonder what he wants.” She knew quite well what he wanted.

“Didn’t you have lunch with him yesterday? Did he say anything about making a donation?”

“He mentioned something, but I didn’t expect him to be in so early.” 

Darpan smirked at her teasingly. “Well, clearly you made an impression on the man.” 

Hermione’s clever retort was cut off by Miranda’s sudden and frazzled appearance. “Is she—? Where is—? Oh, Hermione, thank goodness you’re here! In my office, now!” She might have sounded angry if she weren’t smiling so widely. 

Hermione shrugged at Darpan, who laughed at her apparent confusion, and dutifully followed Miranda into her office. Draco Malfoy stood to greet her, looking more imposing than anybody had the right to in a small office filled with doilies and delicate porcelain owl figurines. 

Miranda piped up before either could greet the other. “Mr. Malfoy here was just telling me about the lunch you two took together yesterday. Apparently you made quite the impression.”

“So she did,” Draco said, his eyes on Hermione. He was just intense enough that, under different and more honest circumstances, it might have made Hermione feel wanted. “I’ve taken a keen interest in this charity since we first spoke, and yesterday at lunch you just sealed the deal.” Hermione tried to smile as convincingly as she could. 

“Mr. Malfoy is prepared to donate £1.5 million pounds to the Foundation, and then £7000 per month in perpetuity.” Miranda was so giddy Hermione was surprised she wasn’t physically vibrating. “Can you believe that?”

Hermione could, but tried her best to look surprised. “Wow, Mr. Malfoy. That’s very generous of you.” 

Draco held back a smirk. “Please, Ms. Granger, call me Draco.” With this, he turned toward Miranda, looking every bit as charming as he was raised to be. “Could I borrow Ms. Granger for the afternoon?”

He probably could have asked Miranda for a kidney at that moment and she would have agreed to it. “Of course, of course. Please do. I’m sure you want to hear all about the work we can do with your generous donation, and Hermione can get the paperwork started with you, and—”

“Precisely,” Draco interrupted. “There’s so much to discuss.” He and Miranda bade their farewells and Hermione led Draco out into the hallway, where Darpan was leaning against the wall and waiting. He perked up when Hermione and Draco appeared.

“Mr. Malfoy, welcome to our donor family!” he said, extending his hand. “I hear our Hermione has persuaded you to be quite generous.” Here Darpan smiled warmly at Hermione, who shifted and tucked her hair behind her ear. 

Draco grasped his hand, just a shade too tight, and shook it with two pumps. “Well, she is very persuasive. In fact, we’ll be working very closely together from now on.” With this Draco grazed Hermione’s sleeve with the tip of his fingers. “We were about to go get a coffee.”

Hermione jerked her arm away from Draco’s hand and reddened slightly, unhappy that this little charade was taking place in front of Darpan. The Indian man searched Hermione’s face, unsure of how to interpret the interaction he was seeing, not thrilled to see how flustered she was becoming at Draco Malfoy’s touch. Draco watched Darpan’s defensiveness with a touch of trepidation, and cleared his throat, turning to Hermione.    
  


“Shall we?”

She nodded, smiled, grabbed her coat from her office, and the two left her office; Draco feeling slightly triumphant, and Hermione’s face heated with embarrassment. She thanked heaven for having a complexion dark enough that her blushes weren’t terribly visible. 

“You’ll have to get that under control,” Draco told her as they left the building. “That little crush of yours.” The streets of London bustled around them, and a muggle crew was putting Christmas lights up that stretched across the road. 

Hermione gaped at him. “I do not— What? How dare you?”

“Look, I don’t care that you fancy your coworker, but I do care that you’re so obvious about it. We’re getting married, for Christ’s sake.” Draco sounded genuinely quite annoyed.

Hermione buried her face in her hands. “Was it that obvious?” she murmured against her gloves. 

“Terribly obvious,” Draco replied solemnly. “Now, hands down. Look at me.” Hermione slowly raised her eyes to Draco’s. “You and I both know what this is. But we need to make other people think we actually want one another. So try looking at me the way that you were looking at him.”

“I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“Just look all moony and in love at me. It isn’t that hard,” Draco scoffed. 

“Isn’t it? You try!” Hermione said, suddenly quite angry at Draco for noticing what she herself had been trying to ignore for the past year. It wasn’t as if mooning after Darpan was a conscious choice she had made. She was pulled from her angry musings by Draco gently grasping her chin. Her breath caught as he tilted her face upward toward his, and her eyes met his. She swallowed as Draco’s other hand gently brushed her hair back from her cheek, and he grimaced. 

“Please try to look like you’re enjoying this,” he whispered. She nodded slowly. 

“Okay.” She closed her eyes and tried to imagine this was Darpan touching her, caressing her cheek with his thumb, whose breath she could feel gently on her skin. When she swallowed this time, it wasn’t out of discomfort. 

“Now,” Draco said quietly, “open your eyes and try to look in love.” 

Hermione slowly opened her eyes and focused on his, which were a deeper blue than she recalled, and then heard a loud  _ click _ . 

* * *

Hermione had been in the press before, but never for something like this. Suddenly her friends were looking at her differently, and strangers in magical areas of town would giggle when she was near. Darpan had smirked at her when Miranda suggested that it might be a good idea for someone else to handle Draco Malfoy’s paperwork. Ginny Potter had nearly deafened her with screams when they met up for their weekly drinks. 

“God, that photo,” Ginny said, giggling into her cocktail. “That looked intense.”

Hermione scoffed. “He was touching my cheek, Ginny, not having sex with me.”

“I think a cheek touch can be very intimate.” Hermione was almost too aware of how the chatter was buzzing around them in this muggle bar, which they had chosen in order to avoid public attention.

“It wasn’t.” And really, it hadn’t been. Following that paparazzi interruption the two had gone to a cafe and quietly worked out the details of their arrangement. The odd touching of hands or flirtatious smile was part of the deal, in order to fool the world into believing their was something between them. Apparently it had worked. 

“So are you seeing him?” 

Hermione remembered that she was meant to be lying to Ginny, and shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. He’s attractive.” 

Ginny nodded almost violently. “Always has been, even back when he was literally evil. Is he not evil anymore?”

“Surprisingly not.”

“Well, I guess if you like him, that’s good enough for me.” Ginny drank deeply. “Just remember that if he hurts you, I will fillet him with a dull knife.” 

Hermione snorted. “Don’t worry, I’m quite capable of murdering him myself if it comes to it.” This, Ginny knew, was entirely accurate. 

* * *

Between Patrick’s reactions and his mother’s, Draco was exhausted. Patrick had been confused yet elated, convinced that the Board would love for Draco to be with Hermione Granger. His mother had come to visit shortly after Patrick left and screamed herself hoarse, cursing Draco and promising him that he would be the ruin of their long and esteemed family line. It was when she left, having grabbed a number of trinkets and swearing that no muggleborn would ever touch them, that Draco finally sat down and poured himself a drink. 

It had been genuinely difficult to force himself to touch and gaze at Hermione Granger. She was technically an attractive woman, but he found everything about her personality so repulsive that there weren’t words for it. If only she weren’t the most famous and beloved muggleborn of their era, he could be doing this with someone else. 

Draco sighed and swirled his whisky, sinking deeper into the plush leather lounge chair into which he had collapsed. 

Her eyes had been surprisingly nice. Dark and deep, like he could fall into them and just keep falling forever. Focusing on those eyes, pretending that they were on somebody else’s face, had made that disgusting piece of theatre on the street just a touch more bearable. He wondered who she had been thinking of to make her look at him that way. He wondered what it would be like to be loved by Hermione Granger, and whether in a different life he would find her less repulsive. He doubted it. 


	6. The Beginning, Part 5

The truth about whirlwind affairs is that they are exhausting. Hermione was learning this firsthand, although she imagined that being at all attracted to one’s partner might make the whole situation a bit more bearable. How anyone could happily tolerate this many dates, this many coffees, this many meetings with friends in such a short span of time was beyond her. She regularly reminded herself that this was for her career, and for the children the Foundation was helping. Already Draco’s record-breaking donation was being put to use, and it had inspired interest from other wealthy donors, besides. The Foundation had never done better, and all it took was for Hermione to smile at Draco over dinner a few times a week. 

“Try to look like you’re happy to be here,” Draco whispered. He sat across from her in a beautiful but public restaurant, the kind of place a Malfoy might take the woman he loved while also being the kind of place where any major scenes between them would be seen by many. His own perfectly practiced smile, which did not quite reach his eyes, was interrupted by a sip of wine. “You look ravishing, darling.” This he said louder, for the benefit of those listening in. 

“Thank you, Draco,” Hermione said, smiling, trying to sound as if she was happy to be complimented by Draco Malfoy. To be fair to him, she did look lovely. Her deep red dress brought out the richness of her skin, and her gold necklace sparkled on her neck. It had been a gift from him, given to her quite publicly, and had inspired two separate articles in gossip magazines. 

Draco leaned forward across the table and crooked his finger, and Hermione obliged, leaning in. As the entire restaurant held its breath, he whispered something in her ear and she laughed lightly, smiled shyly, and gazed at him. They were the very picture of true love. 

“I’ll be proposing in just a few moments,” Draco had whispered to her. “Try to look surprised and happy, and do try to make it seem that I’ve just said something charming to you. They’re watching.” 

Her acting had much improved over the past month, and Draco very much appreciated that she no longer flinched whenever he touched her. He understood the impulse, but so much was riding on this that there was no room for her disgust with him to get in the way of this plan. His reputation, his career, and his fortune were entirely dependent on Hermione Granger’s ability to appear in love with him. Thankfully, she had always been a phenomenally quick study. 

Draco bade their waiter approach and refill their champagne flutes, after which he stood and walked to Hermione’s side. The silence in the restaurant was palpable as he kneeled. A camera clicked, the sound almost obscene amidst the dead silence. Draco cleared this throat, thought of his business, and removed a small velvet box from his pocket. 

Hermione, for her part, did manage to look surprised, and even cautiously joyful, as a woman in love might look with her lover bent on one knee before her. When Draco opened the box she gasped lightly and put one hand to her mouth, her shock at the beauty of the ring not at all feigned but her joy in seeing it an invention.

“Draco, what are—?”

“Hermione, please,” Draco said, quietly enough that onlookers might think he was speaking only for Hermione, but loudly enough that they could hear every word. “Please let me speak.” 

She nodded silently, trying to look happy and awed and everything else she had felt when Ron had proposed to her. Draco reached and took her hand from her mouth where it had flown in shock and held it in his own. 

“I know that we haven’t always been friends, or even friendly, Hermione,” he began, his acting masterful. “And I know that this is fast, but Hermione, I am so in love with you. You make me better. You make this whole world better. I know that I have done nothing to deserve you or the kind of happiness you bring me every time you laugh, or smile, or even scowl at me, but please. If you will give me the opportunity, I want to spend every day I have left trying to be as good as you make me want to be, as good as you are, and as good as you deserve.” Somewhere in the restaurant, a woman sniffled into a kerchief. “Hermione Granger, will you do me the incredible honour of becoming my wife?”

“Oh, Draco,” Hermione said, softly. It was as sweet a proposal as she had ever heard. She laughed kindly and shook her head, as if the idea of Draco Malfoy not being good enough for her was ridiculous. “Of course.” Draco smiled sweetly at her and slipped the ring onto her finger. Standing, he leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek, and she smiled as if she enjoyed it. The restaurant erupted in applause, and another camera clicked. The pair raised their champagne in a toast and the other diners began offering their congratulations and asking for various wines and desserts to be sent to their table.

“To us, darling,” Hermione said. Only Draco caught the edge of sarcasm in her voice.   
  
“To us,” he agreed. 

* * *

Ginny Potter had never been so angry. She was blind with fury. She tore through her house, a special evening edition of the _Daily Prophet_ in hand, shouting for her husband. 

“Have you seen this?” she demanded upon finding him in the study. “Have you? It’s fucking ridiculous. They’ve been together one month!” She bandied the newspaper in front of her and Harry rose from his chair. Grabbing it he smoothed it on the desk, and he inhaled sharply at the image on the front page. Draco Malfoy was holding Hermione Granger’s hand and kissing her on the cheek as she positively glowed with joy. Malfoy then tilted his face away from Hermione’s and gazed into her eyes, and Hermione looked like she was in love. On her left hand was a diamond which may have been large enough to pay off the national debt. _GRANGER AND MALFOY TO WED_ , the headline shouted. 

Harry coughed. “No, I hadn’t seen this.” 

“What’s she doing?”

“Marrying Malfoy, I suppose.” Harry ran his hand through his hair. “Do you think Ron has seen this?”

“I don’t care about Ron,” Ginny said, her voice dripping with irritation. “I care about the fact that a month ago Hermione started dating this absolute toad of a man and now she’s apparently marrying him. She never told me it was moving this fast.” 

Harry was having difficulty processing this news himself. “Maybe she thought you’d take it poorly.”

Ginny almost snarled. “I am a very supportive friend, Harry Potter. I would not take this poorly.”

“Of course, darling,” he said, sinking back down into his chair. Ginny seethed quietly. “Well, I suppose we ought to send them our congratulations,” he added, reaching for a quill. 

“Our congratulations? Don’t tell me you think this is a good idea,” Ginny scoffed. 

Harry smiled. “Of course not, but are you going to be the one to stop her?” Ginny huffed. 

* * *

“You bloody didn’t!” Patrick roared happily as he burst through the fireplace. He immediately set to pouring himself a drink. “Congratulations, Draco. Really. She is gorgeous, she is smart, she is—”

“Enough to appease the Board?” Draco was leaning against the fireplace mantle, his drink abandoned as he brushed soot from his trousers. “Careful when you come out of the Floo. You’ve brought the whole fireplace with you.” 

Patrick laughed. “Who cares about the Board? You’re in love and she agreed to marry you. That’s amazing, Draco.”

Draco drank deeply. “Yes, of course, I’m thrilled. But do you think the Board will be happy?”

Confusion flashed across Patrick’s face. “Draco, why do you care?”

Draco shrugged. “Just thought it might make them happy.” 

Patrick threw back some of his firewhisky. “Well, sure, I guess. You aren’t marrying her to make the Board happy, though.”

Draco laughed. “No, of course not. Just an added bonus of falling in love with the great Hermione Granger, I suppose.”

“She won’t be Hermione Granger for long,” Patrick said, his voice friendly and teasing. “She’ll be Hermione Malfoy soon enough. When are you two kids tying the knot?”

“One month.” 

Patrick coughed on his drink. “One month? Pretty fast. Is she—?” He curved his hand over his stomach, miming a pregnancy. 

“No, of course not.”

“What do you mean, ‘of course not’? I assumed you two were going at it like rabbits.” Patrick smirked at his business partner. 

“Right, yes, of course.” Draco said, suddenly embarrassed. He had forgot that people would now think that he and Hermione were having sex. “No, naturally, we have— That is to say, we are—” He struggled to sound enthusiastic about fucking Hermione Granger. It was one fantasy he had never had. “We are active,” he finally said. 

Patrick laughed. “You sound nervous, mate. She must be something.” 

Draco finished his drink in one long swallow. 

* * *

Hermione stared at the diamond ring on her kitchen table. She had taken it off as soon as she had arrived home, its weight oppressive on her hand. She refilled her glass of wine and took another swig before placing the ring back on her finger.

Off it went again. 

When Ron had proposed, with his modest ring and his shy words of devotion, it had felt so right. That ring had felt like it belonged on her finger, like it had been made for her. When she had taken it off to clean or do some other task around the house she never felt quite right until it was back on again. Taking it off hadn’t felt like a relief until it had, and Ron was gone with it. Him and his new career and his new love, and her penniless in his wake. 

A sudden knock on her door startled her out of her reverie. With one final glance at the ring she went to greet her visitor. 

Draco Malfoy stood on her stoop, looking impatient, as if she had made him wait an hour rather than thirty seconds. “You should be wearing the ring,” he said, glancing briefly at her hand. “What if it hadn’t been me? What if your guest then had questions?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes and opened her door wider. “Come on in, dearest.” She took pleasure in steeping that final word in as much sarcasm as she could muster. 

It was the first time Draco had been in her flat. There had been no point in going there since they had begun this false courtship. After all, the whole point had been to be seen together in public, not to spend time together. It was small but cozy, with a number of books stuffed into what looked like a long-abused bookcase. Inexpensive photographic prints hung on her wall, but they suggested she had some taste in art. In the kitchen past the sitting room he saw his ring glinting on the table, accompanied by both a bottle and a glass of cheap but serviceable wine. 

“We’re going to have to kiss,” he said very suddenly. “At the wedding.” 

“Yes, I rather figured,” Hermione said dryly. 

“I felt how you tensed up when I kissed you on the cheek today. I doubt it was noticeable to others, but it won’t do for our wedding day.” 

“Do forgive me,” Hermione scoffed, walking past him to pick up her wine. “Care for any?” She gestured to the bottle. Draco nodded stiffly. He could hear her moving around the kitchen and a glass clinking as it briefly made contact with a bottle of wine. “So is that why you’re here?” Hermione called out from the kitchen. “To remind me that I’ll have to kiss you? I already knew that.” A cabinet closed in the kitchen and Draco took a seat on the couch. 

“I suppose I thought we should talk about the logistics of it,” he said.

Hermione suddenly appeared before him, an extra glass of wine in hand. He grabbed it almost forcefully and took a small sip. “Why, Draco, I thought you’d know how to kiss by now,” she said. She had a way of teasing him that rarely sounded unkind. Draco imagined that when he teased her it had a keener edge to it. 

Hermione took a seat in a chair next to the couch. “I think it will be perfectly fine to just share a chaste peck at the wedding. It will be a big, traditional wizarding affair. Excessive affection would be inappropriate.” 

“During the ceremony, sure. At the reception people might expect us to be a bit more blatant in our affections.” 

“Well, Draco, I suggest you just lie back and think of England, then.” 

He shot her a questioning look. 

“It’s an old, old Muggle phrase. It just means to suck it up and do it. Actually, it refers to sex.” 

“Why would anyone think of England during sex?”

Hermione laughed. “It was meant to encourage brides to just shut up and have sex with their husbands, to think of the fact that producing children was a service to the nation and the empire.” 

“Why would you want to think of that during sex? Surely there are more interesting things to focus on.”

“Because the sex was often bad.”

“Ah.” They were both silent for a moment. “So I should just focus on the greater good when kissing you and not focus on the fact that it’s you?”

“I’ll be doing the same, I promise.” Hermione swallowed more wine. “Or think of someone you actually like.” Draco nodded slowly. 

“Should we practice or something?” he asked.

Hermione snickered. “We’re not kids at a sleepover, Draco. Neither of us need to practice kissing.”

Draco sighed. “Fine, I just thought I’d offer so we can make it more realistic.” 

Hermione stared at him. He looked as frustrated as she was. He also looked like he found the idea of kissing her incredibly off-putting, which was simultaneously a huge relief to Hermione and a threat to their plan. She set down her wine, stood, brushed some wrinkles from her skirt, walked to the couch, and sat next to him. “Fine. Kiss me, then.”

“Try to sound less enthusiastic about it, why don’t you?” he shot at her. 

“I’m sorry, do you actually want me to want to kiss you?” she scoffed. 

“Fair point.” Draco set down his wine and shifted to face Hermione. “Just think about that colleague of yours, or something,” he told her. 

“I plan to,” she assured him. Draco smirked at her as he so often did and she closed her eyes. “Get on with it, then.”

In his lifetime, Draco Malfoy had found himself in a number of unusual situations. He was instrumental in murdering his school headmaster, for example. He had found himself naked in a no-apparition zone in a girls’ dormitory in university and had to explain it to the Dean, who had been the one to catch him. He had once accidentally turned his best friend Blaise into a beagle. 

It all paled to watching Hermione Granger close her eyes and tilt her face ever so slightly toward his. She looked annoyed. That pout wasn’t one of desire or flirtation, but one of irritation. He briefly wondered if she would ever not be upset with him. Not in love with him or even fond of him, but simply not actively miffed by his presence. She huffed out a small breath. He was taking too long. 

Draco was something of a scientist by nature. Perhaps it accounted for why he had excelled at potions at school. Perhaps it explained why his tasks with the Dark Lord always had something to do with working out some new technology or spell to assist with the war effort. Draco was very methodical in how he approached his experiments. He formed his hypotheses with care. He planned his methods in exacting detail. He kept long records of the reactions his experiments produced. He was precise in documenting his findings.

_Hypothesis:_ Draco Malfoy could make Hermione Granger enjoy his touch, rather than resent it. 

_Method:_ So gently she could hardly feel it, he grazed his fingers across her cheek before settling his hand at the side of her neck. Leaning forward his breath ghosted across her skin and he placed a single kiss to the juncture of her neck and jaw. 

_Reaction:_ He felt her pulse quicken ever so slightly, and as he pressed his lips against her neck, she let out the smallest sigh. 

_Finding:_ All it took to stop Hermione Granger scowling at Draco Malfoy was a touch. 

Hermione’s eyes were very wide as Draco pulled back every so slightly. “Draco, what was—?”

“That was an experiment,” he told her. Her eyes creased in confusion but then his lips were on hers, and they were gentle, so much more gentle than she would ever have expected. Hermione sighed into him and his tongue brushed against her lip before he pulled away, leaving her open-mouthed in her shock.

She swallowed. “Okay. So that was fine.” She had not yet moved. Her face was only inches from his. He could smell her perfume.

“Fine?” 

“Yes, that will do nicely. If we have to kiss again, I mean,” she explained. Draco nodded. 

“Alright. So that’s been dealt with. Good.” He almost leaned back toward her, so instead he cleared his throat, stood up, walked over to the chair Hermione had sat in earlier, and sat down there. “Good. Yes.” 

Hermione nodded and took a drink of wine. “Well, then. I suppose we have a wedding to plan.”


End file.
